


written word

by octopodian



Category: Stellar Firma (Podcast)
Genre: different modes of communication are good and should be respected, fae/faer and ze/hir side characters, minor character death (non canon character), speculative backstory about why leaflets mean so much to them, they/them Enola
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopodian/pseuds/octopodian
Summary: Enola:Hang in there, champ.- David, 7No one had ever made them a pamphlet before. Not once.David did.
Relationships: Enola/David 7 (one-sided), also enola / a random build team oc
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	written word

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in like a day bc i was thinking about how enolas affection for david mirrors davids affection of bathin in a celebrity-worship sort of thing AND i was wondering about why maybe they would prefer writing things down to speaking out loud and... well. here you go

_Enola:_

_Hang in there, champ._

_\- David, 7_

It takes Enola about three days of crawling to reach the central ventilation system. David was right, of course, that all of the vents had to circle back to somewhere. It’s huge, giant fans creaking as they spin, dizzying heights going down for far too long. It’s terrifying. 

Still, they make their new base here. It’s scary, but this is where they need to be.

They’ve mostly started over with the pamphlets, but they kept a few Trexel didn’t muck up, and create new ones with a fiery passion, even faster than they were before. 

They have to do this. Not just for Stellar Firma, but for David too, now.

No one had ever made them a pamphlet before. Not once.

David did. Beautiful, sweet David. 

They clutch it to their chest and sigh wistfully. 

They’d never been good at spoken words. As a kid they were incredibly quiet, and once they learned to write they’d always preferred to write things down. It let them express themself in a way talking out loud didn’t, let them communicate easier without their thoughts getting jumbled and things not making sense. 

Finally, they could connect with people and their words were a tool instead of a hindrance. 

They started mostly with notes. Simple things like "how are you?" or questions for their classmates. Once they were old enough to join the build team, they would jump at any chance to write up questions about the feasibility of certain things, or make the road signs, or type up requests to Imogen. It kept them content, helped them use their strengths. 

One planet for Dr. Enamel Starcluster, a planet-sized dentist office with a moon-sized waiting room (a design that was pointedly not by Giestman and thus didn't explode or kill anyone) required a high volume of brochures for patients to peruse as they waited. Enola volunteered and made every single one, dedicating themself to the task for hours. There were ones for every type of teeth whitener, every sugarless candy, anything a dentist could dream of. 

The planet was given glowing reviews (though Enola credits most of it to their coworkers who engineered the mouthwash hot springs and minty fresh toothpaste volcanos). It gave all of them a round of effectively meaningless but very prestigious promotions, and a 10% off coupon on qualifying beverages at participating Stellar Firma bars. 

It also meant Enola got a lot more attention. Their coworkers gave them a ton of compliments on their leaflet skills, asking if Enola could make them some invitations for their birthday party or help them write letters to their family. Suddenly they were getting invitations to go to the Comet Club after work, getting waves and smiles at the start of the work day. If a planet needed writing, Enola was sure to be picked first for the job. 

They used the written word more and more, making pamphlet after leaflet after brochure. They made one to put on the Build Team fridge:

_“Remember, don’t drink other people’s slurry! Unless they told you that you could, in which case, that’s fine, but normally, don’t do it, please!”_

They made ones to hang on their wall, memories of all the great planets they’d built and all their new friends.

_“Remember Celine Boulderbelt and her giant chandelier planet? Gosh, was that fun!”_

They even, in a moment of bravery, gave one to their coworker, Simmons, that confessed their feelings for hir. Simmons didn’t write back, ze wasn’t the type to, but the kiss ze pulled them into the next time they saw hir answered all of their questions.

Enola was thrilled. Their talent and calling could not only make themself happy, but others too! And their planets were damn good, too. They got to work with their friends, and hang out with Simmons at the club after work, and wake up with a smile every morning. 

Everything was lovely.

Then their build team faction was assigned to Consultant T. Giestman.

Planets kept going _wrong_. At first they thought maybe it was a fluke, a bit of rotten luck, but it stayed consistent. Every time, something would break, or some glaring error would go unnoticed, and it would always end in explosions and death. 

Every time they received a design brief and it had his initials on it their heart would sink. The designs were ludicrous, they were nonsensical, they lacked any useful detail or direction. Trexel was a bad designer, and his designs should never be made.

Maybe if only Enola could do something… 

But of course, they weren't the problem. Trexel was. Trexel and all the stupid, awful people like him. The Board wasn't responsible because the Board is benevolent and good, but people like Trexel… they are not. And somewhere along the way, the Board had been distracted from all the awful people, and they didn’t know about any of the problems, and that’s why awful things kept happening. Enola was convinced of this. Something was very very wrong in Stellar Firma. 

They tried to raise this issue with their project overseer, Sanjeeda, and the gun walls had immediately whirred to life with a deadly vengeance. 

Sanjeeda just looked at them tiredly, asking them to please just do their job and stop questioning things. Fae was not very kind to them after that, and they learned to bite their tongue around faer.

Now, Enola couldn’t verbally address any issues, not with Imogen listening, not with the gun walls, but they could still write. They wrote countless notes, pointing out flaws and issues, pleading for their coworkers to make tweaks to designs in the slight chance that it’d help. 

_“Maybe this much neurotoxin isn’t a good idea. Consider using slightly less neurotoxin! Thank you for your consideration!”_

_“Shouldn’t the spike pits in the jungle be less pointy? I think if they’re so sharp, someone might get hurt if they trip into them. Just something to keep in mind!”_

Enola would watch, quietly, as their coworkers saw the notes, sighed, and threw them away. It stung, but Enola kept trying. They had to!

Not two weeks after Enola’s confession to Simmons, they found out through a company newsletter that ze had wound up dead in another random station accident. An entire section had been jettisoned into space for classified reasons, and ze had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And the worst part was that life went on. Simmons was replaced by a new build team employee fresh out of training, and no one commented on it. 

Enola casually tried to mention Simmons while sitting with their team at lunch, some funny story ze’d told them, and a security claxon immediately went off. They quickly had to backtrack and pretend they meant someone else, but the damage was done. 

Their former friends stopped talking to them. No one sat near them, or waved at them as they worked, and no one asked Enola for any more leaflets. Even Simmons’ replacement steered clear of them.

Enola was risky, Enola was a ticking timer, and no one wanted to be seen with them in case it finally went off.

So Enola left. One morning, they just grabbed all the stationary they could carry, opened the vent in their living quarters, and crawled away. 

They had a few close calls where their boss almost found them, but fae eventually gave up. They were one employee of a hundred thousand, at least; they were not missed.

Now was their chance to make a real difference. They couldn’t make one in the build team, forced to follow unjust laws at threat of death, but they could now, on the run, at slightly less threat of death. 

So they tried. They made a plan, and they followed it. They were going to educate every Stellar Firma employee, and the Board, and everything would fix itself once everyone knew it was wrong. Who would keep upholding a system they knew was broken? No one! So if Enola could just tell them… and they were doing well, too! They were averaging 100 new leaflets a day! 

And Trexel Giestman, of all people, the one man who ruined their life and Simmon’s life and so many lives, had the nerve to insult them. He called them ‘weaklets.’

Well, okay, yes, they might've been a bit weak, but they were all Enola had. This was their way of being useful, of being understood. It always had been. So even if they didn't have enough and even if they weren't good enough, Enola was going to do something with them.

They didn’t tell Trexel this, because they hate him, and because their words had a habit of running away from them. They could’ve made a pamphlet to explain it for him, but he had ruined their life and they refused to give him anything. 

But David… David was trying to help too. David was fighting back too and was running away, just like them! David hadn’t exactly liked their leaflets, but that was okay, because he’d made them one, all himself. He saw that it meant something to them, and maybe he didn’t know exactly how much (they still sleep holding it), but he knew it meant _something_. He chose to be kind, he ignored Trexel’s stupid words and smelly face and talked to them as an equal in a way they understood.

David couldn’t possibly know how much that meant to them. 

They were going to make David a leaflet some day. They were going to write something that could perfectly encapsulate the swell of emotions that the tiny gesture had caused, and thank David for inspiring them to do better, thank them for everything. But not right now. Right now, they had other leaflets to write.

_Hang in there, champ._

They were going to do just that, and they only had a few hundred thousand more leaflets to go.


End file.
